cut & paste personality
by slire
Summary: modern!au / "Who am I talking to?" Theon grinds out, icily. "Ramsay Bolton? Or his doctors?"


**Disclaimer:** A Song of Ice and Fire © George R. R. Martin

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**Cut & Paste Personality**

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The diner is dimly lit. The clock is 23:40, but electricity is expensive these days, and the grotesquely obese woman behind the counter already seems to be eyeing the flies on the glue trap, hungrily. Theon drinks instant coffee, the most repulsive kind imaginable, a mix of devil raisin and shit. The cup of coffee is round and deep and black, like a hole—a hole in the world. A hole in him. Or there was, three years ago. A hole he has come here to seal completely. Theon continues to drink. It's his fourth cup tonight. He gains no joy from it, but he must do _something_.

Something other than glancing nervously at the door, as if it will burst any moment and reveal another black hole. (A walking one, which enters in three, two, one, **go**)

The little bell above the door rings.

He doesn't look that different, really, Theon thinks. His movements are slowed, though, eyes squinting—as if in a state of sleep walking.

The fat mountain behind the counter grunts, "What will ya have?". One can attribute Theon's macabre description of her to his current state of mind, welling with bad memories. Fuck inner beauty. Fuck beauty in general. Fuck R— ... the man (he curses himself for being unable to say the name, after all this time) ordering something in a sweet—false, false, false—voice. "Tea, please. Whatever you have. No milk or sugar."

"That'll be 6.50$."

The man pays in cash without complaint. He turns towards Theon, smiles, and a wind blows through his soul. He starts walking.

Theon's knuckles are white.

The man sits down opposite him. He has... changed, certainly. The clothes are simpler. A pair of jeans, a sweater. They hide the monster underneath—that, and the tattoos. Sinister tattoos, all of them. The position is less relaxed, spine straighter, oyster eyes almost shining. "Theon," he greets, finally.

"Bolton." Theon manages to keep his tone neutral.

If the formality disturbs him, Ramsay does not show it. "...I wanted to meet you sooner, but they wouldn't allow it, which is, of course, understandable. Yes. Understandable." It's awkward. Not angry, not dangerous—_awkward_. "I thought about you a lot, you see." _That_ sends chills down Theon's spine. "But I am _better_ now. Not fixed, but I'm getting there. I meet with my therapist four times a week, and I attend group therapy and workshops." Ramsay twirls his thumbs. He's skinnier, too. That's what institutions for the criminally insane does to one.

Prison would've been worse, especially for Ramsay's 'delicate state of mind' (psychiatrist's words). Theon recalls the trial. He'd sat at the back in dirty, oversized clothes, Robb's arm slung protectively over his shoulder. They saw corrupted lawyers play their little games, meaningless to them and everything to the victims of the case. Lots of parents were crying and shouting for justice for their dead daughters. Ramsay hadn't cared. He'd looked right at Theon the entire time, unblinking, with an eye colour no two people could agree on, which Theon can still see when he closes his own, almost as if it was _cut_ into his lids

(—_with a sharp, sharp blade in the moment before terror & pain and a bloody mouth teeth fish lips stuck in his neck cold hands on his chin quiet because of a gag like the whole world's on some soft, soft drugs—_)

No. Stop. He's here to fix things, not relieve them.

Ramsay continues, "...I'm not going to ask you to forgive me. My therapist says not to believe in miracles. He's the one who arranged this meeting, y'know. What I did to you was gruesome. Inhuman. I stripped you of your rights as a human being and I enjoyed it. It's _sick_. 'Cos was sick. Am. But for what it's worth I am. Truly. Sorry."

The apology hits Theon like a ton of bricks.

He wants to scream. He's spent years imagining moments like these, and in all of them there are shouting and screaming and sometimes death (although he never admits to himself he _likes_ those)—but this? A fucking apology? Does he expect— well he said he doesn't— _what the fuck_

"Who am I talking to?" Theon grinds out, icily. "Ramsay Bolton? Or his doctors?"

Ramsay is expressionless. "It is still me, Theon. All me. Same DNA, same body, same eyes. I've gotten _better_, see? Psychology is all about breaking and rebuilding. Did you think they let people walk out of there if they were still ill? Of course not."

No, but... "Where is he?" Theon hoarsely demands. "Where's the real Ramsay?!"

The obese woman looks over to them, scowling. Ramsay goes still. Then he lays a hand on his heart. "Dead." There it is again—that little smile. So poisonously sweet. Theon goes blank.

How the hell can you reconcile with your past if that past is dead?

It takes a while for Theon to calm down and drink the shit coffee. Ramsay drinks his herbal tea, and quietly comments how he isn't allowed to have sugar, alcohol or caffeine. "Patterns... are so easy to slip into. A man who hadn't smoked for ten years spent two minutes inside an elevator with a man who did and gave in." Ramsay sighs. "I... How is your current situation? Comfortable?"

"Quite."

"Job?"

"I'm a freelance mechanic after the aquarium store went bankrupt. People doesn't care about pets these days—especially the still ones." A little jab. "I'm alright, thanks." That did not leave room for many questions.

"I'm... glad." The tension is so thick you could slice through it. "How about a home? I remember that you didn't have one when we..." he trails off, apologetically.

Theon ignores it. "I live in a house, yes."

"Oh. Good. And how about a relationship, are you in one currently?" Theon sneers. Ramsay immediately looks to regret his statement, swallowing thickly. "I'm sorry that was rude and none of my business I ap—"

Theon was never the sharpest knife, so to speak. The urge to _provoke_ rises in his chest like a bomb, and he says, "Don't apologize. I'm in one."

Ramsay sobers up. "Who?"

"Robb Stark." _Let's see your face now, you sick fuck._

Ramsay doesn't say anything for a little while. Then, chuckling of some private joke, he asks, "So you live with him, right? In his house?"

"So what?"

"It's cute. I'm very happy for you, Theon." Again with the use of his first name. It's patronizing, especially because Ramsay is wholly blasé. "Does he know you're here?"

Theon's face heats up. "No. It would complicate things."

"Understandable. He's good to you, isn't he? Easily worried? Better than I was? "

_(—Robb is nothing like __**him**__ with clean gentle soft fingers and a rich woodsy smell and Theon is / should be / is not that glad because when they have sex Theon whispers "go harder" when he actually wants to say "fuck me like you want to kill me and leave scars on the old ones so I know where you've been"—) _

"Yes. Yes, he is." _But he doesn't fuck me the way you did._

Theon knows this. It's no use denying it. But Robb means _safety_, means _home_. He tells himself he'd gladly take that for what Ramsay offered (can offer? _shut up_).

"That makes me happier than anything. God knows you deserve happiness, too."

"Thanks," Theon says dryly. This is almost like a parody of a real encounter between the two of them. Unreal.

Ramsay smiles. "If there's anything I can do for you, don't hesitate to tell me. Economically, I mean." He searches around in his jacket. It's his old jacket. Leather. Half ruined. Theon always liked that jacket, before. He almost doesn't notice the scrap of paper Ramsay moves forth on the table with two fingers, not forcing it on him, but suggesting that he take it. It has a number on it. Ramsay's number.

Theon stares at it.

The thought occurs to him that he should eat it. Chew it and swallow, or spit it into Ramsay's mug. Frothing, grinning, telling Ramsay to piss off and never come back.

"Take it. You don't need to call or anything, but I'd feel safer if I knew it was with you."

A heartbeat passes.

Theon takes it quickly, as if he's doing something illegal. Technically, it's not illegal, but taking something from own abuser a man judged unstable after the murders of countless... that's not recommended. Is he betraying Robb by talking to Ramsay?

Ramsay seems pleased. "Thank you."

They don't say anything more.

"I... I need to go. I get checked on, you see. To make sure I'm not in trouble." Ramsay stands up. "It was nice seeing you, Theon. Goodbye." And like that, he leaves. Theon can't even look at him. The paper weights a ton in his pocket.

Only once does Ramsay stop on his way out. It's not very noticeable, but when he holds the door handle, he pauses, contemplating something. Then the contemplative expression slides off like wet paint and Theon swears he sees the real Ramsay in the split second before he walks out into the night.

Theon shudders.

He should get home. Home to Robb.

He sits there for a little while. Then he grabs his phone and dials a number.


End file.
